Chapter 14 Case File Overload
CASE FILE OVERLOAD
LILA
Breaking into someone’s house is that it’s significantly less cool than it looks in the movies.
Less Mission: Impossible, more “sweaty palms and praying your flashlight doesn’t die,” plus the added bonus of wondering if you’ll twist your ankle in the dark and have to explain it to an emergency room nurse.
Also, Theo is way too calm about all this. It makes me question if this is truly his first time breaking and entering, after he harassed me about breaking into the lab.
It took us two hours and half a bottle of wine to figure out the best path according to the blueprint we found in the archives, but once we got back to our room and started retracing the lines against the layout of the house, it clicked.
Those narrow, barely visible markings snaking beneath the estate like veins were, in fact, tunnels, just as we had originally expected.
They connect the main house to the guest quarters, the greenhouse, the stables, even the old garden shed.
And, to the other houses on the property.
We found that the blueprints noted that some were blocked off, others partially collapsed, but a few were still navigable. Hidden in plain sight.
Tonight, we used one of those.
The narrow tunnels were freezing, lined with crates that looked like they’d been stolen from a museum’s storage room. Bellwood’s anthropology department would likely sell their souls for a chance to take a peek at any of it.
I can’t even begin to understand why the family hasn’t donated all of it to one of the exhibits, unless they genuinely don’t know what they’re hoarding. Which is entirely possible from the looks of things.
Or they do realize, but have reached the wealth tier where priceless objects become clutter.
Either way, the Mayfairs are sitting on more than they know what to do with.
We entered through the rotted-out cellar door of the east guest house to avoid being intercepted by one of the house staff, crawled through 150 yards of cold, cobwebby darkness, and popped up through a rusted maintenance hatch hidden beneath an old rug in the basement storage room of Baryn’s house, tucked behind a shelving unit lined with dusty bourbon bottles and exactly one (1) taxidermy pheasant.
Giles would absolutely lose his mind if he found out—especially since, according to Theo, he practically threw himself between him and that locked door in the house. The one we can only assume also leads down to the tunnels.
If he thinks it’s improper for guests to serve themselves or carry their own bags, I can only imagine his reaction to us wandering beneath the estate grounds and casually breaking into another house on the property.
He’d probably faint, delivering a lecture mid-collapse.
Something about heritage preservation and respect for architectural integrity while clutching his pearls and dialing the local historical society.
Now, crammed together inside what has to be the world’s smallest maintenance alcove—wedged behind an ancient water heater and a panel of exposed wiring—I watch Theo dig around in the electrical panel like it’s just another weekday night and not a felony.
The walls are damp. My shoulder’s going numb from where it’s pressed against a pipe. I’m ninety percent sure something furry just rubbed up against my ankle and I don’t want to know what.
“Do you even need me here?” I whisper.
“You brought snacks, no?” he says, not looking up. Then adds, “Emotional support. Maybe hold my hand if it gets too scary. And hey—breaking into places is kind of your thing, isn’t it?”
I squint at him. “I have a chalky protein bar and exactly one piece of gum in my bag. I’m a woman of limited inventory. If we get caught, I’m trading you for immunity and a free trip to the police station vending machine.”
His body shifts against mine, an excruciating drag of fabric and warmth that I feel all the way down my spine.
He grins and flicks a switch. Somewhere above us, I hear the faint whir of the exterior security cameras as they power down, along with the rest of the house’s security system.
“You’re sure that’s not going to set off a silent alarm or something?” I ask, even though I know the answer won’t make me feel better.
“If it does, we have about twenty minutes before a very polite, very armed security firm shows up in pastel polos and detains us.”
I stare at him. “I hate that you made that sound plausible.”
He wipes his hands on his jeans like he’s just finished trimming the hedges, not disarming part of a millionaire-dollar surveillance system. There’s a glint in his eyes I recognize instantly because it’s the same one I get right before I do something reckless in the name of justice.
I never pictured Theo in jeans and a hoodie.
It’s not his usual style, but it fits the night’s agenda.
The image of him crawling through tunnels and breaking into someone’s house while wearing slacks and a button-up hits me so hard I have to clamp my mouth shut before I laugh—or moan, honestly, because even that sounds hot.
He looks good. Ruin-your-life good.
I’m convinced he could make anything look obscene in the best possible way. A potato sack. A pillowcase. Probably a tarp from the hardware store and a roll of duct tape if he really committed.
“The Mayfairs aren’t the only ones who know how to mess with security footage,” he says, smug as hell.
I may or may not be attracted to that too.
Oh, for fuck’s sake, am I ovulating?
We ease out of the basement through a narrow stairwell. The old stone walls sweat with condensation, and I have to duck to avoid a low-hanging pipe that looks like it’s been waiting decades to give someone a concussion.
At the top, Theo pauses in front of a weathered wooden door, clearly not meant for everyday use, and pulls a thin tool from his pocket. He works the lock with concerning ease.
The mechanism gives with a soft click, almost offended by how little effort it took.
Inside, the house is silent.
Everything smells faintly of some expensive cleaning concentrate. Probably imported. Specifically engineered to make you feel insecure about your credit score.
I scan the hall, ears straining for any hint of movement, and pause mid-step when I think I hear something. I suck in a breath.
“I thought Nora said he wasn’t home,” I whisper, probably too loudly, heart thudding a little faster now. My fingers twitch at my sides, every instinct telling me to backtrack.
“He isn’t,” Theo pushes the words out, low and fast. “But there’s definitely someone here.”
My mouth goes dry. Heat rolls up my neck.
“Cool. Awesome. We’re breaking into a house with someone still inside. Next, let’s juggle flaming chainsaws and see how far we can push our luck.”
Theo turns his head toward me with maddening calm. “You’re the one who said—and I quote—‘We need more dirt or we’re dead in the water.’ I’m just facilitating your ambition.”
A sound, harsh and sudden, rips down the hall, slicing through our whisper-screaming match. Nails skittering against hardwood.
My spine straightens on instinct. “Is that—?”
Before I can finish the sentence, a small blur rockets around the corner and skids to a stop in front of us.
It’s a dog.
A very tiny one. Maybe four pounds, tops. It’s wearing a pink sweater and has one ear that sticks straight up while the other one flops to the side.
It lets out a yip that’s more greeting than threat, then trots right up to Theo and licks his boot like we’re expected guests.
This was not on my list of possibilities. “That’s Baryn’s guard dog?”
It’s a papillon—tiny, wide-eyed and vibrating.
Theo crouches and scratches behind its ear. “Honestly, I was more scared of the goats.”
“Same,” I am still staring at the pint-sized sentinel who’s now rolling over for belly scratches.
I crouch down and rub his belly. “You’re too cute to be security,” before scooping him into my arms. “You can come with me, but you have to be quiet.” I press him against my chest, and he lets out a soft little huff that’s either a sigh or a burp.
Unclear, but adorable. He’s very obviously pleased with himself and satisfied.
We move with a pace that feels borrowed from the panic of thinking there was another human in the house.
The dog—who I’ve now mentally named Marshmallow, because he’s approximately the size and density of one—is curled against me, blissfully unaware of the potential felonies happening around him.
After surveying the downstairs, we realize Baryn’s office must be on the second floor. We tiptoe up the staircase, taking each step like we’re walking through a minefield.
Every creak sounds like a gunshot in my ears.
Every shifting shadow makes my grip tighten on Marshmallow, who remains wildly unbothered by the concept of home invasion.
By the time we reach the office door, I’m pretty sure my pulse is doing the Macarena and considering adding some backup dancers.
Theo picks the lock, because apparently that’s just a thing he does now, and we step into a room that looks like the kind of place where someone would plot the downfall of a mid-sized government. Or host a whiskey-fueled poker night with the Illuminati.
“Yikes,” I whisper. “This is aggressively masculine.”
Leather chairs. A walnut desk the size of a small car. A paperweight shaped like a brass sextant, because obviously that’s what every aspiring villain needs. The whole place screams I own cufflinks and emotionally repress things for sport.
Theo’s already at the filing cabinet, thumbing through manila folders.
Marshmallow wiggles in my arms and snorts softly. I give him a quick shush, which he ignores in favor of licking my thumb with intense focus.
I make my way over to the desk and start rifling through drawers.
I see it almost immediately. It would be too freaking easy, but it’s screaming at me to look inside.
One folder, tucked beneath a stack of credit card bills and a receipt for a humidity-controlled display cabinet.
I yank it out and flip it open.